


sick

by CrimsonFandomTrash



Series: Hawyee (RDRII Stuff) [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Introspection, Not A Fix-It, Poor Arthur, Sick Arthur, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 17:47:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20532059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonFandomTrash/pseuds/CrimsonFandomTrash
Summary: Arthur has to come to terms with the fact that he's dying, which is easier said than done.





	sick

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone other than Arthur in the tags is just mentioned, firstly.  
Secondly, I don't really know what this is other than my first Red Dead fic to go up on here.  
Thirdly, I really don't know what I'm doing anymore lmao

Arthur sat on the ground in front of the fire, and welcomed the warmth that spread across his skin. Granted, it didn't do much, his back still exposed to the cold night air, and his recent trip to the doctor chilling his bones. 

Tuberculosis. Hell of a thing, the doctor had said. He never specifically said anything, other than that it wasn't good news, probably because it went without saying that Arthur was going to die. 

He was going to _die_. 

It's only now sinking in, now that he's sat down for the night in a quiet little clearing in the woods of Lemoyne. Even with the fire warming his front, his blood freezes and the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end. Nevermind that he feels feverish. 

He's never been good at controlling his thoughts, especially once they start going a mile a minute. And so, naturally, they start spiraling. 

Arthur hates being scared, tries to push the feeling down whenever it starts bubbling up, but this time, he can't. He nervously fiddles with a button, scuffs his feet at the ground, tries his best to ignore it, and he can't. He's dying. Every second that ticks on, every little moment he's still here, will be a moment closer to the end, and he'll probably never even see it coming. 

He feels dizzy, and sick, and a feeling grips his chest harder than the illness that's causing it. He hates the fact that he's shaking, but who could blame him, really? 

_Nothing_ is right at the moment. Hosea and Lenny are dead, Dutch won't listen to reason, Micah keeps getting in the older man's ear and giving him stupid ideas. There's only a few folks at camp anymore, most of them at each others' throats, and John's locked up in a federal penitentiary. There's too many loose ends, and Arthur has no idea how much longer he has to tie them up. 

He wants folk safe. People like John, Abagail, Jack, Mary-Beth, Karen, Tilly. Miss Grimshaw, and Swanson, and Uncle, and Pearson. Charles, Sadie, and Dutch. Even Dutch, still. Even after all that's happened. 

But if he dies, then Micah will surely damn them all, continuing his pursuit of putting foolish plans into Dutch's head. And Dutch will listen, because Micah has him wrapped around his finger lately.

There's always been pressure on his shoulders, but it feels a ton heavier now. There'd always been the possibility of dying anyway, a swift bullet from a lawman, a bounty hunter, or an O'Driscoll had always been on his mind. He shouldn't be scared, not when he'd lived with that truth for so long, that he could die at any moment. But the fact that his time was coming to an end slowly meant there was time to reflect, and thinking felt no healthier than the illness itself. Having time to think about it, for it to sink in, left him _terrified_. 

His breathing picked up a little, panicked and wheezy as his heart started to race along with his mind. He was helpless. This wasn't something he could shoot or charm his way out of. Time was running out, whether he liked it or not, and he decided that he definitely did _not_.

There was nothing he could do. _Nothing_. 

His nerves were shot. Arthur holds out his hand in front of him, and it was shaking wildly. He tries to calm down, really, _really_ tries, but it's no good. He doesn't think he's been this scared in a long time. 

He goes on trying to ignore it. Pulls out a piece of meat from his satchel and cooks it over the fire, he eats, and tries to ignore through each bite just how not hungry he is. The sick has taken away his strength, left him skinny, barely fitting into his clothes, has taken his appetite away. Even getting through the last bite of his small meal feels like an uphill battle, especially when the fear he's trying so desperately to push down makes him feel like throwing it all back up. 

Arthur drags himself over to his bedroll on the other side of the fire and finds himself coughing something fierce. His lungs ache, and his mouth fills with the taste of iron. As soon as the fit lets up, Arthur spits the blood out of his mouth onto the ground. It's yet another reminder that he doesn't have long left. As if he needed another reminder yet today. 

He collapses back onto his bedroll, groaning in pain, disgust and annoyance as he does so. He closes his eyes and tries his best to sleep, but when it doesn't come easily, he opens his eyes again, staring up at the sky. The moon is bright overhead, and stars pepper the empty space of the dark night sky. It's really quite beautiful, and it makes him feel a little better, but not by much. 

What a whole mess everything has been lately… Hosea and Lenny dying, getting stranded on the island of Guarma. It's all just… _So much_. Arthur can't wrap his head around it. It feels like only yesterday, the entire gang was still alive, and they were flourishing in Blackwater. They'd had plenty of money. Jenny, Mac, Sean, Davey, Lenny, and Hosea were still alive. Dutch still listened to him. 

And then that _fool_ Micah got into Dutch's ear and convinced him to carry out that ferry job. It didn't feel right to any of them; even Arthur, and he'd never been a part of that heist to begin with. That one failed job had damned them all. They might all still be alive and well in Blackwater if Dutch hadn't listened to Micah. 

He might not be dying of sickness right now if Micah had never joined their gang. As far as Arthur was concerned, every bad thing that had happened to them as of late was because of Micah. 

Arthur sighs heavily, hating the ache in his failing lungs as he closes his eyes. He needs to get some rest. It's a long ride back to camp tomorrow. 


End file.
